


plain gold ring

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, And so much fluffy awkward boys, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, John is a Flirt, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mostly just brief misunderstandings, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past James Sholto/John Watson, Sherlock is a dumbo, Soft boy Sherlock Holmes, Songfic, The softest boys, and maybe a himbo, but he is also his idiot genius self but softer, very very minor angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:07:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock never expected to meet a man like John Watson, and certainly not while reluctantly attending Mike Stamford's birthday party. They hit it off almost immediately, but why is John wearing a wedding ring?
Relationships: James Sholto/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 164
Kudos: 393





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by the song _plain gold ring_ by kimbra. 
> 
> this fic begs the questions, what if John wasn't such a closet case when he met Sherlock? what if Sherlock wasn't such a pain in the ass? what if they met in a casual way, instead of during Sherlock being a friggin sociopathic terror, and John being a post-Afghanistan mess?
> 
> ——
> 
> _plain gold ring on his finger he wore  
>  it was where everyone could see  
> he belonged to someone, but not me  
> on his hand was a plain gold ring_
> 
> **-kimbra (plain gold ring)**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> look at me, I actually wrote a whole story before posting it! a rarity, for sure. 
> 
> originally, I had a very angsty little alternate first meeting fic planned, and then it evolved into this 12,000+ word fluff fest.

Sherlock looked up into the grey sky, his breath puffing out from his lips in a steamy mist. Small flurries of snow drifted down from the pewter-edged clouds, landing in and melting through his hair. Damp with the thawed flakes, the slick curls hung down across his forehead, stark against the white of his skin. Clutching a beer in one gloved hand, he tipped the neck to his lips and wondered, not for the first time, why he had bothered coming to this party. 

Hovering at the edge of the group of excited, relaxed acquaintances, Sherlock squinted, trying to remember how he had let Molly and Mike talk him into tagging along.

They had all but ambushed him at the morgue, immediately after the wrap-up of a particularly compelling case. It had involved a murdered beekeeper and apiary research, something Sherlock found fascinating. He had looked up from studying a piece of honeycomb to see Molly and Mike standing over him and wearing mischievous twin smiles.

“It’s Mike’s birthday tomorrow, you know,” Molly had begun, before nudging an elbow into Mike’s side. Blinking, Mike had nodded.

“Yes, and you should come. It would be nice if you were there.”

Sherlock had hummed and tried his best to disengage. But they were persistent, telling him he needed to get out of the lab more, that he needed to socialize, that they wanted him there. Against his better judgement, he had consented.

Now, here he stood, lingering like some dark spectre at the edge of a small grouping of people, most of which were either entirely unfamiliar or only vaguely so. For a while, Molly stuck with him before disappearing to flirt at a tall bloke with short black hair. Mike was busy receiving various birthday wishes, catching up with old friends and folks with a passing resemblance to him, likely family members.

Sherlock sighed and ducked further under the short eaves, seeking shelter where he could as more melted snow dripped from his hair and down his nose. His breath emerged as a cloud, and he tucked his empty hand into his armpit. Despite the gloves, it was bitterly cold and damp, and he was beginning to feel miserable. Why they had to come to this bar, and stay even when there was no room inside for the group, only patio space, was beyond Sherlock. He sipped at his beer and shivered, trying not to scowl.

“It’s bloody cold,” came a voice to his left, and Sherlock looked up from glowering at his feet to find a man standing at his side. He was shorter than Sherlock, wearing blue jeans and a green jacket without a hood. No scarf, but he wore a pair of threadbare gloves, compact hands wrapped around a green beer bottle.

“Mhmm,” Sherlock’s reply was a low hum deep in his throat, and he tried not to be too obvious as he watched the man from the corner of his eyes. He expected the stranger to wander off at Sherlock’s obvious lack of engagement, but he settled against the wall instead, seeking shelter just as Sherlock was beneath the eaves’ inadequate cover. He took a drink from the bottle in his hands, and Sherlock frowned, looking him over as surreptitiously as possible.

He was ex-military, going by his parade-rest stance and short haircut. He held his left shoulder stiffly, and Sherlock was willing to bet there was a service career-ending injury there. The stranger’s left hand shook very slightly around the beer bottle, making the neck tilt when he brought it back to his thin lips. Probably at least partially psychosomatic, but Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder seemed more likely.

“So, how do you know Mike?” the man asked, breaking into Sherlock’s quiet observations.

Blinking, Sherlock refocused, finding the man looking at him with a raised eyebrow. His eyes were very blue, startling and vivid in the pale winter air, and Sherlock struggled not to get lost in them. “Um, I...” he paused to gather his thoughts, frowning. The man’s eyebrow rose a little higher, and he smiled, the expression crooked and friendly on his open face. 

It was oddly charming.

“Sorry, I’m a little nosy sometimes,” the man said, a faint flush rising in his cheeks. Sherlock stared at him, thinking the reaction was incredibly endearing.

“No, no. It’s fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat, taking a drink to buy time as he tried not to stare too long into the man’s oceanic eyes. “I know Mike through Bart’s. I sometimes use the lab there.”

The man’s eyes shone, and he grinned. Sherlock, taken aback by the sudden display of warmth, took another quick drink of his beer, fighting back a blush of his own.

“I went to Bart’s!” the man exclaimed, sounding nostalgic and pleased all at once. “That’s where I got my medical degree.”

 _Ahhh. An army-doctor, then._ Everything began to fall into place. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked, trying to keep his voice casual. Most people did not react well to his deductions, but the man succeeded in not being boring, and Sherlock was filled with curiousity.

The man blinked up at him, taken aback. “How… sorry, what?”

Feet shifting, suddenly self-conscious, Sherlock looked down at the ground, avoiding the man’s stunning eyes. “Oh, I just...” glancing up again, he found the man watching him with his head cocked to the side, his expression expectant. Sherlock went on in a rush, the words spilling out in a sloppy mess as his anxiety grew. “Your hair!” he babbled, face turning red. _Well, it’s too late to stop now, Sherlock. Well done._

He had really put his foot in it this time.

“The way you wear your hair, it’s typical of someone in the army. You stand like a soldier, stiff-backed and proper. It’s not so common these days to see someone with such good posture.” Sherlock paused for breath before running on, “You said you attended Bart’s for your degree, and you have permanent pigment damage to your skin, but it doesn’t extend past your coat collar much, so it doesn’t seem plausible that you were tanning.” The flush had extended to his ears by now, and Sherlock was grateful his curls hid most of the incriminating evidence. “Also, there are obvious signs of injury on your left side. I’m guessing shoulder? Put it all together, and…” Sherlock shrugged helplessly.

“Afghanistan or Iraq,” the man said, repeating Sherlock’s earlier words. Sherlock nodded, feeling a little miserable as silence dropped between them, the sounds of the loud, cheerful group nearby filtering through the heavy air. Sherlock began to fidget before the man finally spoke again.

“Two things,” he said, holding up two fingers as Sherlock looked at him. “One, it was Afghanistan.” Sherlock nodded as the man folded one finger down, relieved to have an answer. “And two...” the relief quickly faded as Sherlock waited for the inevitable anger. But the man smiled, ticking his index finger down as he finished, “That was brilliant.”

Sherlock stared at him, taken aback. His mouth opened, lips parting, a startled huff of air slipping out. He blinked, a slight frown creasing the skin between his eyes. His mouth stayed open, but nothing emerged.

The man’s smile slipped, fading as concern filtered into his expression. “Uh… are you okay?” He reached out, brushing Sherlock’s arm with a gloved hand.

Sherlock came back to life with a loud inhale, shaking his head. “Sorry, yes, sorry. I… I’m fine.”

The man looked amused, a new smile replacing the one that had disappeared. “Does that happen often?” he asked, peering up into Sherlock’s face. His hand was still on Sherlock’s arm, warm through the layers of clothing separating their skin.

“Only when I’m surprised,” Sherlock replied, clearing his throat.

“I surprised you?” The hand still hadn’t moved, and Sherlock felt the contact like a burn.

“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly. “Usually, people don’t say things like _brilliant_ when I tell them their life story.”

The man’s amused smile widened into a grin, crooked like before and just as charming. “What do they usually say?”

His lips curving, unable to resist the infectious nature of the man’s smile, Sherlock replied, “Piss off.”

The man giggled, actually _giggled,_ and Sherlock felt his heart thud at the sound. He looked around, figuring this must surely be a prank, that someone would jump out and yell, _gotcha!_ But no such thing happened, and it was just he and the man, who was looking up at him with warm eyes and laughter on his lips.

“Well, I say it’s brilliant.” The man shook his head, still with the same grin. “Absolutely fantastic.”

Sherlock felt warmth flood into his face, and he ducked his head, uncertain how to respond. In the end, he didn’t, and the man’s hand finally dropped from his arm. Sherlock looked up in surprise, watching the man finish off his beer.

“Well, I think I’m for another,” the man said, tilting his head toward the pub doors. Sherlock’s heart sank as he recognized the segue as an attempt to disengage. Despite the man’s kind words, Sherlock had clearly made him uncomfortable, and he was just too polite to say something.

“Right, of course,” Sherlock replied, hiding his disappointment as his face shifted into a mask of indifference. “It was nice talking with you.”

The man looked surprised, almost wounded. An uncertain expression slipped over his face. “Oh. You’re not coming?” Sherlock’s head shot up, and he stared. A slow smile curled the man’s lips up at the corners. “You’re doing it again, the blinking thing.” He gave Sherlock a sly look from under pale lashes. “Does that mean I surprised you again?” Sherlock nodded, and the sly look shifted into a delighted laugh. “Come on, then,” the man said, grabbing Sherlock’s sleeve. “I’m pretty sure I saw a small table inside on my way through, could still be available.”

Letting himself be towed off the patio and into the bustling pub, Sherlock felt dazed. “We’re… not going back outside?” he asked, giving in to the man’s guiding tugs and pulls as they moved around cluttered tables and milling pub-goers.

“Hell no,” the man exclaimed. “I’m not going to freeze my arse off any longer.” He paused, rising onto his toes to peer across the pub before tilting his head toward Sherlock, still grinning. “And I’m not letting _you_ out of my sight.” There was a wily glint in his blue eyes, and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat.

“No?” Sherlock asked, wincing as his voice emerged higher than normal and praying the man wouldn’t notice. Going by the way his lips curved, he had.

“Not until you tell me how you figured me out with just a look,” the man replied, pointing to an empty spot in the corner. “Success!” Tugging at Sherlock’s arm, he gave him a little push toward it. “Go save that table for us. I’ll be back with drinks.” Before Sherlock could respond, he had liberated the empty beer bottle from Sherlock’s hands, tipped him a wink, and slipped away toward the bar. 

Turning, feeling dazed, Sherlock found his way to the corner booth. He dropped into the seat with a thump, barely registering the hardwood against his backside as his mind whirled.

Not only had the man impressed Sherlock by not being boring, but he had also shocked him by praising Sherlock’s deductions, something that rarely happened. He was incandescent, and Sherlock didn’t even know his name.

“I’m back,” the man said, appearing at the table and startling Sherlock from his thoughts. He was holding out another beer, and it was the same Sherlock had been drinking. Sherlock blinked and took it, looking up at the man as he sank into the seat across from him.

“Thanks,” he replied, then stuck out a hand. “Sherlock.”

The man tilted his head. “That your name?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes, fingers wiggling as he waited. “Yes, obviously.”

Looking thoughtful, the man leaned forward to take Sherlock’s offered hand. “John,” he replied, his handshake firm. He was still wearing gloves, as was Sherlock.

“Nice to meet you officially, John,” Sherlock replied. He pulled at the fingers of his gloves, tugging them off and slipping them into a pocket. He hesitated, then shrugged out of his jacket and scarf, folding them neatly on the booth beside him.

He caught John staring at his chest, at his tight dress shirt, and Sherlock resisted a blush, hiding it with a cough. “Warm in here,” he commented, grabbing desperately for his beer to keep his hands busy. He shook his curls out, still damp from melted snow, and tried not to smile as John’s eyes followed the movement appreciatively.

“Definitely an improvement from outside, yeah,” John agreed, putting his beer down to shrug out of his jacket. He dumped it unceremoniously onto the bench, tugging off his gloves.

Distracted by how John’s black-and-white, long sleeve striped jumper hugged the muscles of his arms, shoulders, and chest, visible through the light fabric, Sherlock didn’t notice the ring at first. As John rolled the gloves together, an overhead light reflected off the plain gold metal, drawing Sherlock’s eye to the ring finger of John’s left hand. 

His heart sank.

John was speaking, his features animated and painted with gold from the pub lighting. Something about the beer he was drinking, and the hops used. The words washed over Sherlock as white noise as his eyes remained fixed on the ring.

“Hey. You okay?” John’s concern broke through his reverie, and Sherlock looked up, realizing he had been staring at the untouched bottle of beer in his hands.

“Yeah, fine,” he replied, his voice brisk. John sat back, brow furrowing at Sherlock’s cold tone.

“Was it something I said?”

“No,” Sherlock assured him, feeling a pang of guilt at the expression on John’s face. He looked confused, a little hurt. Sherlock’s eyes flickered to the ring, and he swallowed down his disappointment, forcing a strained smile. “Sorry, but it’s getting late. I have to go.” It was only 8 pm, and they both knew it, but John didn’t argue.

“Oh, okay,” he replied, appearing discouraged and flustered. “It was nice chatting with you.”

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling a faint tug in his chest at John’s crestfallen face. “Likewise,” he said, offering a terse nod before leaning down to retrieve his jacket and scarf. Sherlock avoided John’s eyes and pulled the layers on. Clearing his throat as he straightened, he tossed several bills onto the table to cover both their drinks. “Have a good night,” he offered, fighting down the urge to linger.

“Yeah, you too,” John responded, his voice soft. His eyes were on the table, and there was a rough edge to his words.

Nodding again, Sherlock turned and walked across the pub, refusing to look back. It was only when he reached the door that he glanced over his shoulder to see that John was still sitting in the booth, staring at the bottle in his hands. With the corners of his mouth turned down, he looked suddenly small. The overhead lights shone off the ring on his left hand, and Sherlock turned away, pushing through the doors and out onto the snowy street.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, a knock at the door roused Sherlock from his contemplative slump on the sofa. Rising to his feet, he pulled his robe tighter around his body, crossing to the door. He found Mike on the other side. 

“Mike?” Confused, Sherlock stepped aside to let him inside. Mike nodded his thanks, walking into the sitting room and looking around.

“Never actually been here before,” he noted, taking in the cluttered space. 

Watching him from by the door, Sherlock tightened the belt of his robe. “Something I can help you with, Mike?” he asked, impatience filtering through the words. Mike turned, his eyes appraising.

“Maybe,” he replied, pausing to gather his thoughts. Sherlock sighed and sat back down on the sofa. It didn't seem like he would be returning to his thoughts anytime soon.

“Out with it, then,” he said, crossing his legs. “I’m a busy man.”

“Sure.” Mike looked around the room again before turning back to Sherlock. “What did you say to John?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up. “Excuse me?” He sat up straighter, bewildered. “I didn’t say anything to him.”

Arms folded over his chest, Mike fixed him with a stern look. “He said you walked out on him at the pub.”

“I said goodbye!” Sherlock countered, his voice indignant. “Wished him a goodnight—isn’t that proper etiquette? It’s not like I just up and walked away from him without saying anything.” His eyes narrowed. “What else did he say?”

Mike tilted his head, appearing unconvinced. “He said you were having a nice time, getting along swimmingly, then you cut him off and all but ran out.” He jabbed a finger at Sherlock. “I know we’re not the closest friends, Sherlock, but I’ve gotta say, that’s just cold. I've known John since uni, and he's a nice guy, a _great_ guy. He’s been through some real hell in his life, and I don't believe he did anything to deserve you being a wanker.” 

Sherlock's hands rose in a gesture of supplication. “How is this my fault?” he demanded, annoyance rising as he stared at Mike. “It’s not my fault he was flirting with me!” 

Mike paused, confusion slipping over his face. “You... you walked out because John _flirted_ with you?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Sherlock snapped, his stretched patience finally breaking. “He’s _married,_ Mike!” 

Mike stared for a long moment before he rolled his eyes to the ceiling, exclaiming, “I bloody well told him to take that ruddy ring off!” 

Hands dropping into his lap, Sherlock frowned. “Why would he take it off if he’s married?”

“Blimey, Sherlock, you can be thick,” Mike sighed. “John's not married.” 

His mind going blank, Sherlock stared at the coffee table, his brow furrowed. “But..." he protested weakly, feeling lost. "The ring...”

“John _was_ married," Mike interrupted, "but his husband passed away. Going on almost two years ago now.” Sorrow slipped over his face. “James was a great guy. He and John were fantastic together. They met in the army before John was invalided out. On one of James’ leaves, they were married. James went back to Afghanistan, and he never came back.” Mike paused, frowning down at his hands. “There was an IED, and, well…” he shook his head. “John was really messed up over it, understandably. I didn’t know if he’d ever get over it. But, true to the soldier he is, John picked himself up and carried on. Hasn’t dated anyone since, or even really put himself out there. And then you come along, Sherlock Holmes, and mess it all up!” 

Sherlock blinked up at Mike with his mouth open, feeling helpless. “I—well, I didn’t know!” he shot back, defensive. “How was I supposed to know all that?”

“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes, and you always know everything!” Mike retorted. “So, how did you miss it all?”

Glaring down at the coffee table, Sherlock’s hands curled into tight fists. “I guess I wasn’t paying attention,” he muttered. When he looked up, Mike was grinning. “What?” he demanded, and Mike shook his head.

“You, _the great Sherlock Holmes,_ weren’t paying attention?” Mike’s lips quirked. “Didn’t know it was possible.”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snapped, turning his head away, cheeks burning. “He... he was distracting, all right?”

Mike nodded sagely, his quirked lips shifting into a pleased smile. “It’s the eyes, right?” 

Sherlock bit his lip, refusing to answer. The red in his face deepened, and he flashed a sharp look at Mike, prompting him to hold up his hands defensively. “Hey—don’t look at me like that. I’m strictly into women, no competition over here. But, as I said, I’ve known John since university, and he’s really a great guy.” Digging into a pocket, Mike held out a folded slip of paper. “Look, that’s his number. I’m not going to tell you what to do, but if you want to call him, you can.”

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock mumbled, taking the paper gingerly. Mike rolled his eyes. 

“Text him, then.” He dusted at his sleeves, straightening his shoulders. “Anyway, that’s my bit of wing-manning done. I’ll leave the rest up to you.” Tossing a grin over his shoulder, Mike slipped through the door, letting it close behind him. 

Listening to his footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock looked down at the phone number in his hand and frowned. 

* * *

It took Sherlock four days to work up the nerve to text John. Lying in bed on a lazy Friday morning in a loose sprawl, he stared at his phone screen, letting sunlight splash over his sheet-clad legs. His finger hovered over a contact entry listed as _John Watson._

Watson. Son of Walter, an English and Scottish surname. The name seemed so incredibly dull, yet John had been anything but. 

Closing his eyes, Sherlock recalled the blue shade of John’s gaze, and he scowled. Opening his eyes again, he glared at the phone as if it were the sole cause of every crisis plaguing the planet. Finally heaving a loud sigh, he selected the contact and typed out a short message.

_Hello, John. Mike gave me your number. SH_

He hit send, then cursed himself. As if John would know who ‘SH’ was. It was unlikely he knew Sherlock's last name. He hurried to type an addition.

_This is Sherlock, by the way._

Sherlock stared at the phone for several minutes, willing it to buzz. When it stayed silent, he let it drop onto the pillow. He shoved his head into the mattress, cursing himself, Mike, and the entire cellular network. Sherlock had begun blaspheming against the creation of language itself when the phone chirped, shivering on the pillow. He snatched it up with eager hands, reading the reply.

**Mike bullied you into texting me, huh?**

Blinking, Sherlock read the text over, trying to gauge the mood of the message. He was leaning toward amused, but there was a doubtful voice in his head that said it could be irritation. Biting his bottom lip, fingers hesitating over the screen, he typed out a quick response.

_Little bit._

John’s reply was just as quick. 

**Glad he did, then.**

Sherlock felt his cheeks warm, and he kicked at the sheets, exposing one bare leg to the chill air. Swallowing down a fluttering feeling in his throat, he considered his next response. He must have taken too long, because the little **(…)** icon appeared, indicating John was typing. Sherlock sucked in a breath and stared at the screen until it lit up with John’s reply.

**What are you up to?**

_Nothing._

**What? Literally nothing?**

_Yes._

There was a long pause. Apprehension burned in Sherlock’s stomach, and he wondered if he should have made something up. Had he been too honest? Had he turned off any interest John may have had by sounding like a lazy arse? His fingers plucked at the sheets, and he reached for the phone just as it chimed with a new message. 

**That mean you’ve got nothing on for today?**

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the message, faint hope stirring in his chest. Licking his lips, he sent a short reply, just one word.

_That is an accurate assumption._

The response was quick, much quicker than before, almost as if John sent the text before losing his nerve. The sight of it made Sherlock’s breath catch.

**Coffee?**

* * *

An hour and a half later, Sherlock, freshly showered and dressed, checked for traffic and crossed Nottingham Street. It was a blustery day, and he walked with his coat collar turned up, chin tucked into his scarf against the wind. Reaching the sidewalk, he approached a green café with tall windows. The lettering on the side of the building read, _Le Pain Quotidien._

Sherlock stepped through the door, into a warm, rustic interior of beige and wooden hues. Loosening his scarf, he glanced around until he spotted John seated at the bar-type counter in front of the window. The cafe was busy, most of the tables taken by young couples and older singles reading newspapers. 

Straightening his shoulders, Sherlock slipped into the seat between John and the wall, pausing to drape his coat and scarf over the back of the chair. He looked around, taking in the trendy atmosphere before turning to John. “Fancy,” he noted, smiling when John winced. 

“Yeah, I didn’t realize it would be so… hipster.” John sounded apologetic, and Sherlock offered a reassuring grin. He opened his mouth to reply, but the server interrupted, coming to hover near their seats.

“What can I get you two?” she asked, her head tilted. Sherlock glanced down at the menu. He felt John’s eyes on him— _those damn eyes_ —and pointed blindly. 

“This?” 

Beside him, John stifled a smile. “Just a regular coffee for me, please,” he said. “Splash of milk.”

The server nodded and walked away, leaving Sherlock to wish he could sink into the floor. John looked to him with a grin. “What did you order?” he asked, tilting over to look at the menu. His shoulder knocked Sherlock’s, making the detective suck in a breath at the sudden, electrifying contact. John squinted. “I've never heard of that. What’s a blue matcha latte?”

Sherlock shook his head, hoping his face wasn’t as red as it felt. “I have no idea.” 

John looked up at him. “Why’d you order it, then?” His tone was a blend of amused confusion.

“No idea,” Sherlock replied, feeling glum and a little stupid. But John grinned, leaning over to bump their shoulders together again. 

“You’re a reactive bloke, aren’t you?” he teased gently. Sherlock stared at his hands.

“And you ask a lot of questions,” he shot back, sounding more defensive than intended. John immediately leaned away, the smile slipping off his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” he began, and Sherlock’s head whipped around, his eyes wide as he cut John off.

“No!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “No, it’s fine. Sorry. It’s… fine.” 

John stared at him for a moment, searching Sherlock's face. Gradually, the smile returned, though it was hesitant. “All right,” he replied, relaxing back into his chair. 

Sherlock stared out the window and resisted the urge to smash his forehead against it. The situation was strongly reminding him why he usually didn’t bother with dating, the awkward evidence playing out in real-time. But when he looked back to John and found those shockingly blue eyes on his face, the mortification softened. Sherlock searched for something to say, something amusing and brilliant, and came up with nothing. John just kept looking at him with that gentle expression on his face. It made Sherlock forget he had ever learned how to speak any of the four languages he was fluent in. To his relief, the server reappeared, setting their drinks down. 

“Enjoy!” she chirped, leaving them alone again. 

Sherlock stared at the drink in front of him. It was frothy, hot, and bright blue, with decorative fern-type latte art on top. He frowned, feeling bemused.

“Why is it blue?” John whispered, leaning over to look at the beverage. His breath blew over Sherlock's ear, a warm tickle, and Sherlock shook his head dazedly. 

“The menu did say ‘blue matcha latte,’” Sherlock pointed out, glancing at it. John’s nose wrinkled.

“Yeah, but… _why_ is it blue? How?”

Sherlock shrugged, picking up the drink with care. The mug was wide-mouthed and round, in that trendy style all cafés seemed to have recently adopted, and he eyed the liquid lapping against the rim. Praying his hands wouldn’t fail him and dump the vibrant drink into his lap, Sherlock sipped the strange concoction. 

“It’s sweet,” he said, licking foam off his lip. He caught John staring, his own lips parted, and his sharp eyes on Sherlock’s mouth. Tossing him a side-eyed look, Sherlock cleared his throat and held the mug out. “Would you care to try?”

John looked at the drink, a dubious expression on his face before he reached out to take the mug. Bringing it to his face, he studied the creamy blue liquid, one eyebrow cocked. John narrowed his eyes and, watching Sherlock over the rim, brought the mug to his lips for a small, uncertain drink. His eyebrows dropping into a pensive frown, he blinked, tilted his head, and set the cup back on the table. Shooting Sherlock a look, John shrugged.

“Not bad,” he admitted, pushing the mug until it was back in front of Sherlock. “Not sure I’d order it myself, though.”

Sherlock fidgeted, his eyes fixated on the smudge of foam above John’s upper lip. He hesitated before reaching out, hand hovering just in front of John’s face. John stared back at him, eyes flickering between Sherlock’s face and his hand.

Sherlock cleared his throat, voice rough when he said, “Ah, you have... just there.” He touched a finger to his own face, mirroring the spot. John grinned. 

“Get it for me, would you?”

Sherlock didn’t need to be told twice. He closed the distance, brushing his thumb over the blue spot and wiping it off John’s warm skin. John’s lips parted, his exhale hot against Sherlock’s fingers and, only through great self-restraint, was Sherlock able to retract his hand. He settled it back in his own lap, hoping John wouldn’t notice his shaking fingers. But John just sat back in his chair, drinking from his own mug with a smile that Sherlock thought looked entirely too smug. 

“So.” John cleared his throat and set his coffee down on the counter. Steam curled from the mug, and Sherlock stared at it, waiting for John to continue. “What do you do?” Sherlock cocked his head, and John snickered. “You know, for work?" he teased lightly. "I’m assuming you do that.”

Sherlock nodded, sipping at his strange drink. “Obviously,” he said, regarding John with a sharp look over his mug's edge. “I’m a consulting detective.”

“A what?” 

Sherlock sighed. “When the police are out of their depth—which is _always_ —I consult with them, help them solve cases. I invented the job.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “You…” he paused, looking thoughtful. “You invented your own job?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Why not?”

“Dunno,” John replied, smiling into his coffee. “Just... I didn’t know that was an option. Feels like I missed out.” 

Beginning to relax, Sherlock snorted and leaned back, the tense, uncertain stress easing from his shoulders. “And you invaded Afghanistan,” he said, keeping the tone light. He was genuinely pleased when John let out a giggle. It was just as endearing as it had been at the pub. 

“Well, that wasn’t just me,” John replied, grinning. “I had _some_ help.”

“Mm, and you’re modest, too.”

“One of us has to be,” John shot back, earning another sharp look from Sherlock. “What?” he said, still with the same grin. “You just said the police suck at their job and implied you’re their knight in shining armour." His eyes glittered. "Can’t say you’re not a _little bit_ of a show-off.”

Sherlock paused, appraising, and smiled sheepishly. “Fair enough.” 

John giggled again, and Sherlock took another drink to hide his momentary fluster. 

The conversation flowed between them with ease, so much that Sherlock lost track of time until John glanced at his watch, his eyes widening. “Bloody hell, is that really the time?” 

Pulling out his phone, Sherlock glanced at the screen, frowning. It was almost 1:30. They had been talking for nearly two and a half hours. Touching a finger to the mug in front of him, he found it cold. “So it seems,” he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket and looking to John. He had an apologetic grimace on his face.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I have an appointment at 2:15.” John hesitated, before adding, “Share a cab?” 

Standing, Sherlock shook his head, reaching for his scarf and tying it around his neck. “Not necessary," he said, smoothing the material flat. "I live a short walk away.” He began pulling on his jacket, pausing when he noticed John fidgeting. Coat settled over his shoulders, Sherlock raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“Ah…” John looked out the window, watching people pass by on the sidewalk before looking up at Sherlock. He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Can I walk you home? If it’s that close, I should have time.” 

Sherlock nodded. He tried to suppress a smile and failed. “Sure,” he said, and John looked relieved, hurrying to pull on his own coat. It was different from what he had worn at the pub, this one dark blue with large silver buttons. It accentuated his frame, and Sherlock found himself sneaking glances from the corner of his eye as they walked outside. 

“You live in central London?” John asked, falling into step as they crossed the street. 

“Baker Street.” 

John’s eyes widened, and he let out a low whistle. “Well, good to know you’re rich.” 

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock shot him a look. “My landlady gives me a deal. I helped her out with a spot of trouble a few years back.” 

John nodded, his expression wise. “Of course, right. With your invented job.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but John was grinning up at him, and he softened, recognizing the light teasing for what it was. “Obviously,” he said, offering a grin. 

They walked together in companionable quiet. The rising wind tangled through Sherlock’s curls and ruffled the short golden strands of John’s neat hair. It felt like they reached Baker Street all too soon, and Sherlock’s steps grew heavier as they approached the familiar black door. Stopping, he turned to John.

“Well, here we are,” Sherlock said, trying to speak around the hammering in his chest. John looked up at him, his eyes flickering to the door. 

“This is where you live?” he asked, looking back to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock nodded, pointing to the windows above them.

“Upstairs.”

John shifted on his feet, leaning forward before pausing. He shot a look around them, frowning at the people walking by. “I, uh…” he stared up at Sherlock, his face suddenly turning red. “Um, I had a good time, and…” Shoving a hand through his hair, John made a low growling noise. “Sod it.” Reaching around Sherlock, John grabbed the doorknob, made a relieved sound when it turned and proceeded to push Sherlock through the door, crowding in after him with a hand on his waist. 

“John—?” Sherlock's words cut off when John placed a hand on his jaw, lifted on his toes, and kissed him.

John’s lips were warm and surprisingly soft. His hands moved until they held Sherlock by the waist, beneath his coat, all firm grip and hot skin. His surprise fading, Sherlock tilted his head down, deepening the kiss. John’s tongue brushed his lower lip, and Sherlock made a small, needy sound, letting John lick into his mouth. He tasted like coffee, and Sherlock dragged his fingers through his short hair, John pressing him against the wall. 

When they broke apart, breathless, John stared at Sherlock's mouth with half-open eyes. His lips felt swollen, and Sherlock resisted the urge to reach up and touch them.

“I didn’t want to kiss you in front of all those people,” John breathed, his thumbs stroking slow circles on Sherlock’s waist through his shirt, still looking at his mouth. He dragged his eyes to Sherlock’s, his face flushed. “Wanted it to be just us, the first time.” 

Panting unsteadily, Sherlock blinked down at him, throat clicking as he swallowed, and John grinned, the seriousness falling away. He kissed Sherlock again, making a soft moaning sound when Sherlock’s fingers traced over his ear. Their bodies pressed together, John leaning into him, and Sherlock felt he might melt into the wall, turned to liquid by John’s warmth.

But John abruptly jerked away in a sudden rush, his eyes flying open. “Shit!” he gasped, scrambling for the door. “My appointment—I have to go.” He paused, looked torn, then darted back to press a quick kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ll text you,” he promised, rushing out the door. It swung shut behind him, and Sherlock pressed his shoulder against the wall, feeling stunned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _whispers:_ soft boys. Also, blue matcha is an actual thing. It's apparently made from butterfly pea flowers (???) and has none of the health benefits of real matcha. I've seen it at a cafe, and it was strange.


	3. Chapter 3

After the whirlwind of their date, Sherlock had little to no time to process the event of his and John’s first kiss. A case swept upon him, consuming his focus until his vision tunnelled, excluding anything that wasn’t _The Work._ By the time he finally surfaced, directing Lestrade to the culprit of a particularly nasty double homicide, nearly two weeks had passed. 

As the rest of reality filtered through his post-case haze, Sherlock realized he had not spoken to John since the day after their meeting. His stomach stirred with something very much like guilt, and he pulled up their chat history. The feeling grew at the sight of several unread messages in his inbox. Scrolling back, Sherlock read from the last time he had replied.

**I really enjoyed today.**

_I did, as well._

**Sorry that I had to run like that. It was for an appointment I had already rescheduled several times. Couldn’t miss it.**

_Entirely alright, I understand._

**Good : )**

That had been last Friday, their conversation continuing into the early morning hours of Saturday morning. The case had landed in Sherlock's lap via Lestrade Sunday afternoon. From then onward, John’s messages went unanswered. 

**Think I could see you again? Was thinking maybe tomorrow?**

That was Sunday evening, and Sherlock had not replied. He was reasonably sure he had been knee-deep in a skip at the time, searching for a discarded handgun. He had eventually found it after forty minutes of digging through the garbage.

John had followed up two hours after receiving no response.

**We can do another day if you're busy then. Whatever works for you.**

Sherlock’s chest tightened as he read on, the messages growing shorter and becoming more infrequent. They changed from attempts at humour to evident confusion, and, finally, to resignation.

**Good morning! Sending this in case your phone is broken, but also in case it’s not ;)**

**You’re not dead, are you? Cos that would kind of suck.**

**Hey, it’s been a few days, and I haven’t heard from you. Hope everything is all right.**

**Did I do something wrong?**

**Okay. I can take a hint. Take care and sorry to bother you.**

The last message was sent two days ago, with nothing since. With his stomach clenching, Sherlock tried to type out a reply. But nothing came to mind that seemed like it would be enough to explain himself, and he froze, at a loss, all the words fleeing from his mind and leaving it blank. 

Before he could hesitate, he hit call, pressing the phone to his ear with shaking hands. John picked up on the fourth ring, just as Sherlock’s heart began to thud, his anxiety ramping his pulse into a discordant, off-beat tempo. 

“John Watson.”

“I’m not dead,” Sherlock burst out. He kicked himself for the idiocy of the statement. Obviously, he wasn't dead. Dead people didn’t tend to make phone calls. Clearing his throat, he rushed on, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t ignoring you intentionally. I had a case, and I tend to become focused on my work to the exclusion of all else. I didn't mean to ignore you.”

There was a beat of silence following his babbling. Sherlock curled his hand around the phone hard enough to wonder if he might actually crush the device between his fingers. He listened to John’s breathing on the other end of the line, holding his own in terrified anticipation. When there was no forthcoming response, he gently prompted, “John?”

“Mike said that you do that sometimes.” John sounded almost amused, despite an edge lingering beneath the words. Faint hope rose in Sherlock’s chest, and he blinked, trying to hold onto the feeling.

“Well, he is correct. I… I am sorry, John. It was not my intention to, ah, ‘leave you hanging,’ as the saying goes.” 

“Mm, yeah,” John replied, his tone a little wry. “I’ll admit, the radio silence didn’t do much for my ego.”

Sherlock winced, catching the hint of insecurity in John’s tone. “As I said, I am very sorry.”

“Stop apologizing." Sherlock thought he could hear a smile in John's voice. “Maybe you can make it up to me, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock’s reply was immediate. “Yes, I would very much like a chance to do so.” 

John laughed. The sound was a light chuckle, and it made Sherlock bite his lip. 

“I look forward to finding out how you plan to do that.”

Sherlock pulled in a loud breath, knowing John must have heard it. He pushed away his trepidation and held the mobile harder to his ear. “Are you free today?” he asked quickly, not wanting to allow himself the chance to give in to a sudden surge of doubt. 

John was quiet for a moment, thinking it over. When he finally replied, Sherlock’s heart jumped into his throat. “What did you have in mind?”

 _Dammit._ He hadn’t thought of anything before asking. Glancing out the window and finding it sunny, Sherlock came to a decision. “Up for a walk?” He hesitated before adding, “Regent Park is next door.” He silently cursed himself as he realized he had no idea where John lived. For all Sherlock knew, he could live across town, making his suggestion rather selfish, and he hurried to add, “unless you had somewhere else in mind. If it’s too far..."

“No, it’s fine,” John interrupted, and now there was definitely a smile in his voice. “I can be there in fifteen. Should I meet you at the park or at your place?” 

Sherlock paused, thinking it over. Was it presumptuous of him to assume John may want to meet at Baker Street for privacy? Was it out of line for Sherlock to wonder if John might kiss him again? Would John even still _want_ to kiss him after Sherlock had ignored him for almost two weeks? 

Confusion overwhelmed him, and a reply burst out before his brain could short-circuit entirely. “The park is fine. I'll meet you at the gate closest to Baker Street?”

“Deal,” John replied. “See you in fifteen.”

“Yes, see you then.” Sherlock hung up the phone, staring at the screen, his breathing a little too fast, a little unsteady.

He was going to see John again. The thought was simultaneously exhilarating and alarming.

Tossing the mobile onto the bed, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, looking at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He fidgeted with his hair, trying to comb a handful of unruly curls into place with his fingers. Jittery and over-energized, Sherlock glared at his reflection. His face looked paler than usual, thanks to the less-than-healthy habits he kept while caught up in a case. The shadows under his eyes were deeper and more pronounced. Sherlock scrubbed hard at his cheeks, trying to pull colour into the skin to offset the darker areas. 

Despite his efforts, he still looked gaunt and pale, and Sherlock pouted at his reflection. There was nothing more to be done, and little point in attempting to rectify the physical signs of his self-neglect. Tearing off his robe, he pulled on a dark blue dress shirt and a dark bespoke jacket. Tucking his shirttails into a pair of black trousers, he arranged a soft cashmere scarf at his throat, choosing a pale grey that offset the vibrant shirt. Narrowing his eyes, he nodded and strode into the hallway, pausing to brush his teeth before walking into the sitting room. 

Checking his watch, finding he had eight minutes until he was to meet John, Sherlock hurried into his Belstaff and thundered down the steps to the first floor. The noise drew Mrs. Hudson into the hall, and she peeked out of her door at him as he struggled with the jacket.

“Going out?” she asked, and Sherlock nodded, toeing on a pair of black boots. “So soon after a case?” Mrs. Hudson pressed. Sherlock tossed her a tight grin, feeling keyed-up and impatient.

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Well, I’m off!” Boots laced, jacket done up, Sherlock bolted out the door, forcing himself not to run down the sidewalk as Mrs. Hudson’s curious exclamation drifted after him. 

He arrived at the park, expecting to be early and surprised to find John already there. He stood just past the gate, facing a duck pond, standing in profile against the sky. Sherlock stopped and stared, taking in the rigid line of John’s shoulders beneath his black jacket— _another jacket? How many did he own?_ —his arms stiff at his sides. Reaching into his pocket, he tossed a handful of something into the pond, the ducks rushing toward him.

“Didn’t think there would still be ducks here, this time of year,” Sherlock said, approaching once his feet finally began to move again. Startled, John looked up from the ducks quacking and paddling in the water.

“Hadn’t thought of that." John's voice was a little strained, the tension in his body still evident as Sherlock came to stand at his side. Clearing his throat, John looked back to the ducks. “I always bring some birdseed with me when I come here. They’re cute.” 

Sherlock stared at the side of John’s face, thinking he could take or leave it with the ducks in terms of cuteness, but that John was an entirely different story. The way his vivid eyes reflected the blue sky was mesmerizing. “Yes,” Sherlock said softly, his throat tight. “Very cute.” 

John tilted his head, looking up at him. A faint flush rose in his cheeks, dissipating slowly as he searched Sherlock’s face. They stared at one another until Sherlock began to fidget.

“John,” he began, ducking his head in a demure expression. “I'm sorry.” 

“Didn’t I tell you to stop apologizing?” John replied, making Sherlock bite his lip. Peering up at him from under his lashes, Sherlock blinked.

“Yes. But I feel it must be reiterated, as I really _am_ sorry.”

John studied his face, seconds ticking by before he nodded. “I know.” His mouth quirked. “I forgive you.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with tentative optimism, and he shifted on his feet, clearing his throat. “I... that’s… that’s good. Um, thank you.”

The tension finally dissipating from his face and shoulders, John grinned. “I’ll still let you make it up to me, though.” His tone was teasing, and Sherlock’s face flushed in response.

“Oh,” he replied, ducking his head again. “Good.”

“You’ve no idea how you’re going to do that, do you?” John asked, his voice soft. Sherlock hesitated, then shook his head, offering a sheepish look. John giggled and bumped his shoulder with his. “That’s okay. Maybe just don’t ignore me again, yeah?”

“I’ll try,” Sherlock said, the words heavy with trepidation. John grinned.

“Guess I’ll take what I can get at this point.”

Sherlock stared down at him, finding they were standing close to one another. John’s dazzling eyes were locked with his, and Sherlock couldn’t stop his gaze from drifting down to John’s parted lips. He dimly wondered— _hoped_ —John might kiss him again. The thought, and the potential that came with it, exhilarated and terrified him. Sherlock struggled not to hold his breath with anticipation. Then John looked away, back to the ducks, and Sherlock tried not to deflate too visibly with his disappointment. 

“Want to walk for a bit?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. 

Falling into step, they turned away from the pond, following a paved path through the park. A faint breeze danced between them, bringing the scent of rain and earth. Sherlock was sharply aware of John’s presence at his side, almost to the detriment of all else. 

John’s knuckles brushed the back of his hand, and he sucked in a loud breath, catching John’s glance from the edge of his vision. Sherlock’s face reddened, but he stared ahead resolutely, trying to control his reactions to John’s proximity. When John’s fingers jostled against his again, Sherlock twisted his wrist, letting their fingertips graze together. Without speaking, John took Sherlock’s hand in his, responding to his silent request. Sherlock caught John’s faint smile from the corner of his eye and pressed his lips together, swallowing at the way his heart thudded in his chest. 

They continued around the park, moving at a leisurely stroll. John’s hand was warm in his, and Sherlock agonized over not holding it too hard, or too loose, fretting over whether his palms might be sweaty, or too cold, or just plain weird. 

“Stop fidgeting,” John finally said, breaking into Sherlock’s panicked obsessing. “Come here.” He tugged at Sherlock’s hand, leading him toward a bench. Fingers still twined, they sat on the wooden seat, overlooking a copse of bare trees. They looked skeletal and stark against the clear sky. Sherlock wished the view made him think less about death, not exactly a rarity for him given his chosen career. 

Turning to John, Sherlock found him watching his face carefully. His expression was strange, inscrutable, and nervous energy flickered through Sherlock’s body. 

“John, I,” he began but swallowed the words when John reached up with his free hand, his fingers brushing a lock of hair from Sherlock’s forehead. Breath stuttering to a halt, Sherlock forced air into his lungs with a loud wheeze, chewing on his lip when John smiled up at him. 

“I’m glad you called,” he said slowly, looping a finger through the soft whorl of Sherlock’s hair. 

“Yeah?” Sherlock asked, his voice made quiet by uncertainty. 

“Mhm,” John’s answer was a soft hum, and his touch drifted from Sherlock’s hair to his cheek. He stroked along a cheekbone and lower, to Sherlock’s jaw. Placing the pad of his thumb to Sherlock’s chin, John tilted Sherlock's head down, leaning forward. Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, closing tightly when John’s lips brushed his. Electricity thrummed over his skin, a shocking current that buzzed in his veins at the press of their mouths. His hands came up as their fingers loosened, and he gripped John’s arms with hesitant pressure. John’s palm cupped the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, and Sherlock made a soft sound in his throat. John moaned in response, pressing forward to deepen the kiss. 

When they drew apart, gasping for air, Sherlock stayed close enough for their breathing to blend together, hot and heavy between them. 

“Bloody hell, look at us,” John breathed, his fingers curling in the hair at Sherlock’s nape. “Making out on a park bench like a couple of teenagers.”

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, nudging John’s nose with his.

“God, no,” John replied, leaning forward to kiss him again. It was slightly more aggressive this time, John nipping Sherlock’s bottom lip and making him shiver. 

“Sorry,” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock shook his head with more fervour than intended. 

“No, it’s good.” He demonstrated his enjoyment by swiping his tongue along the curve of John’s mouth, clutching at his shoulders and trying to bring him closer. John chuckled at his enthusiasm, but Sherlock couldn’t quite dredge up enough energy to feel self-conscious. His entire focus was on John. On his lips, on John's hands on his body, on the warm brush of their tongues as they came together.

“Christ,” John panted, tilting his head back. He fisted his fingers in Sherlock’s hair when he tried to follow, making a soft noise of complaint as their mouths separated. “If we don’t stop right now, it’s going to be impossible for me not to shag you right here in the bloody park.”

Breathing heavily against John’s neck, Sherlock grabbed John's hip through his jacket. “Pretty sure no one on this bench would stop you.”

A laugh erupted from John’s lips, and he wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, giving him a squeeze. “Mm, the other people in the park might have something to say about it, though.”

“Don’t care about them,” Sherlock retorted, tracing a sloppy j-shape on John’s neck with his tongue. John let out a strangled sound, breath catching in his throat, and he grabbed Sherlock’s jaw, tilting his head back.

“All right, all right—you’ve convinced me that you’re still interested. Settle down.” The words were amused, and Sherlock bit back a grimace when John stopped him from continuing his exploration of his neck. 

“Tease." He watched John rearrange his jacket, leaning back against the bench. 

“Says he who can’t be bothered to text back after I made sure to use all my best kissing techniques on him,” John shot back before tipping his head to the side with a wide grin.

Sherlock stared at him, dumbfounded. John continued to grin until a cold wind swept through the air, making Sherlock shiver. “Come on," John said. "I’ll walk you home.” 

Rising, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Another appointment?” John took his offered hand, letting Sherlock pull him to his feet. 

“Nope, working. Last-minute shift.” At Sherlock’s inquiring look, John added, “I work part-time at a clinic. Military pension doesn’t really cover much.” 

Sherlock nodded, his expression thoughtful. He opened his mouth, considered asking about any money John may have received from his late husband’s passing, and thought better of it. He fixed an understanding smile on his face instead. 

They fell into step, heading through the park toward Baker Street. The closer they drew to the flat, the more Sherlock began to fidget. Would John kiss him again? The thought made his stomach flutter, and his cheeks burned, his breath quickening. By the time they stopped in front of the door, Sherlock was a nervous wreck, body thrumming with too much energy and expectation. 

John looked up at him with a smile, and everything stilled. Sherlock’s breath whooshed out in a loud gasp, and John’s expression shifted into a grin. “You’re kind of adorable, you know that?” 

His face burning, Sherlock glanced away, teeth pressing into his lower lip. John was still holding his hand, and his thumb stroked slow, soothing circles against Sherlock’s skin. Words bubbled up in his chest, impossible to contain, and babbled from his mouth in a rush.

“Let me cook you dinner.” The request came out closer to a demand than an offer, and Sherlock clamped his jaw tight, knowing his face must be bright red. John’s eyes widened before his lips twitched with amusement.

“I have to go to work,” he said, laughing. “Remember?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, biting back a sharp response. “I didn’t mean right now.” He fidgeted, fingers spasming against John’s. “Just, when you’re available, I’d... like to cook you dinner.” 

John grinned again, giving his hand a squeeze. “Sounds lovely.” His head tilted to the side. “How about Thursday?” 

Considering, Sherlock tapped a finger to his lips, then nodded. Thursday gave him more than enough time to prepare. “Thursday works,” he replied, hesitating before adding, “It’s a date,” John smirked, clearly picking up on Sherlock’s awkward uncertainty. 

“A date it is,” he said, leaning forward. His head tilted up, and he pressed a warm kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock relaxed, melted, and breathed into the contact with a small, pleased sound. John chuckled against his lips before moving back.

“I really do have to go, though,” he said reluctantly. He tipped Sherlock a wink. “See you Thursday.” 

Sherlock nodded, lifting an arm for a passing cab. “Thursday,” he echoed, watching John slip into the backseat. 

It sounded like a promise. 


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock’s nerves grew as Thursday neared, and he tried not to let his anticipation morph into frustration. When Lestrade came by with a case, barely a three, Sherlock chased him off with a snarl. He wasn’t about to let anything distract him from his dinner date with John. Not this time. 

John texted him the night after their walk, clearly just off work. 

**Did I say how glad I was that you called?**

Sherlock’s lips quirked, and he settled onto the sofa, reading the text with a slight flush in his face. If he were a more emotional man, prone to sentimental proclivities, he might have said his heart skipped a beat. But he wasn’t, and it most certainly did _not._

_I believe you may have mentioned it, yes._

John’s reply came almost immediately.

**Well, gonna mention it again anyway, cos I am ;)**

_If you must._

Sherlock smiled, feeling something bright and hopeful fluttering in his stomach. He pushed a hand against his abdomen, frowning at his own fanciful thoughts. Ridiculous. 

John’s next text made it hard to care whether or not it was ridiculous.

**Looking forward to Thursday**

After only a moment of hesitation, Sherlock tapped out a short response.

_As am I._

* * *

Thursday dawned cold and grey. Sherlock cursed the faint drizzle that fell on him on his way to Tesco, though it lacked any real vitriol. The sky could dump acid on his head, and it would have little impact on the smile on his face. He caught himself whistling as he added items from his shopping list to the cart, and bit down hard on his lip to make it stop.

The cab ride home was a lesson in patience. Sherlock all but launched himself onto the curb once they stopped, throwing money at the driver, the shopping bags looped over his arm. He dashed up the stairs, ignored Mrs. Hudson’s annoyed voice, and crashed into the kitchen. 

It was 2:30, and John was due at 6 pm. Sherlock set about making a massive mess of the counters and table with his culinary preparations. 

By five o'clock, there was a roast in the oven, herbed potatoes to be whipped, and a light salad needing only to be tossed with a simple homemade dressing. Sherlock attacked the potatoes with intense energy, finally setting them in the oven to stay warm before he dashed into the bedroom to change. 

His hair was a mess, standing up in tangled clumps, and there was a smudge of gravy on his cheek. Glaring at his reflection, he tore off his clothes and stepped into the tub for a quick shower.

As the clock ticked closer to 6 pm, Sherlock stood in the now-clean kitchen, his damp hair once more styled into its usual shape, body clean and clad in soft dark trousers and a pale red shirt. He fidgeted with the table settings, worrying at his lip, and nearly leapt from his skin when someone knocked at the front door. 

Pausing to suck in a steadying breath, Sherlock tried not to fall down the stairs in his eager haste. He stopped at the landing, gathering himself, and pulled the door open with a smooth expression on his face to reveal John.

“Hullo, you.” John held up a bottle with a small grin. “Brought some wine, hope that’s all right.”

“Perfectly all right,” Sherlock replied, stepping back to let him in. He closed the door and took John’s coat as he slipped it off. He wore a dark blue and green striped button-up beneath, and his hair was styled in a graceful swoop to the right side of his head. 

Sherlock’s breath caught, and he cleared his throat before schooling his expression into something a little less covetous. John grinned, catching him anyway, and Sherlock felt his cheeks flush.

“Ah, up here.” Sherlock took the wine, hoping John wouldn’t notice how his hands shook and gesturing for John to precede him up the stairs. He did, and Sherlock’s polite manners were rewarded by a welcomed view of John’s arse while they climbed the steps. 

They passed into the flat, John pausing to look around and comment, “Lovely,” at the cluttered sitting room. 

“You think so?” Sherlock asked, and John turned to him with a smile.

“Absolutely,” he said, glancing around again. “Quite nice.”

“Well.” Sherlock moved to set the wine down on the sofa table. “Glad you approve.”

“Oh, I do," John’s voice dropped into a deep purr, and Sherlock looked up to find John looking at him, his blue eyes warm. Sherlock ducked his head, a blush working up his neck to his face, and shifted on his feet.

“John...” he fell silent, lifting his head to watch John move toward him, one hand rising to brush over Sherlock’s lips.

“Hey,” John murmured, his eyes riveted to Sherlock’s mouth. 

“Hi,” Sherlock replied softly, almost a whisper. John grinned, flicked his eyes up to Sherlock’s, and leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips moved together languidly, the kiss unhurried, bordering on sweetly chaste.

“Thanks for having me over,” John said against his mouth. Sherlock swallowed, his breath catching in his throat.

“Anytime,” he replied, closing his eyes at the feel of John’s hands on his waist as John’s tongue brushed along the inside of his bottom lip. 

They kissed until Sherlock's body hummed, and he felt boneless, John propping him against the wall with a hand on his hip and an arm around his back. Sherlock’s hands flitted between them, smoothing over John’s chest, his broad shoulders, down his spine. When he grabbed a handful of John’s arse, lifting and tugging him closer, John gasped and chuckled, dropping his lips and teeth down to Sherlock’s neck. 

“Dinner... dinner will get cold,” Sherlock finally managed. He tilted his head back, John’s tongue trailing over the edge of his jaw.

“Mm,” John hummed, nipping and making Sherlock jump. “Might just devour _you_ instead.” 

Sherlock’s eyes slid shut, a shivering sigh slipping from his mouth. “Cannibalism is illegal, John,” he said, aiming for chastising humour, and wincing when the words came out in a breathy, weak pant. John laughed again, an amused bark of surprise, and he lifted his head from Sherlock’s neck, giving him an affectionate look that made warmth bloom in Sherlock’s chest.

“Fair point.” John stepped back, licking his lips. “Perhaps I can wait until dessert, then.” His eyes flickered over Sherlock’s body, moving down and then back up to his face, lingering in places that made Sherlock’s cheeks flush all over again.

“C-certainly,” he replied, clearing his throat around the stammer. Scooping up the wine, scratching his cheek to hide his vulnerability, Sherlock gestured to the kitchen. “Ah, after you?” 

John grinned and led the way into the kitchen, his brows rising at the spread. “Wow.” He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, head tilted. “I’m impressed.”

Sherlock busied himself with the wine, removing the cork and fetching two glasses. “Oh?”

There was warmth at his back, and John’s chest pressed into him. “Oh, yes,” he breathed, hot against Sherlock’s neck. “Gorgeous as all hell, _and_ you can cook?” Hands stroked over his sides, drawing shivers across Sherlock’s skin. “How are you possibly single?” Sherlock’s lips quirked, his usually sharp ire softened by the press of John at his back. 

“Flaws outweigh the positives, I suppose.” Sherlock jumped when John’s nose drifted along the skin beneath his ear.

“Doubt it,” John whispered, making Sherlock bite his lip.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. "Perhaps." John stepped back, and Sherlock turned to face him, wine glasses in hand. John’s face was flushed, his eyes half-closed and lips parted. Sherlock swallowed a groan. “Dinner?” he asked softly, and John nodded, licking his lips with a slow sweep of his tongue. 

Sherlock distracted himself with pouring the wine, ushered John to a seat, and served the food warm from the oven. He dressed the salad and filled two small bowls, settling across from John with anxiously fluttering hands. The hot, sparking energy from before refused to dissipate, sinking into the air as a thrumming promise. 

“This is fantastic,” John declared after trying a bite of everything. Sherlock blinked, sipped from his wine glass, and tilted his head.

“Thank you.” He lifted the glass, a crooked grin on his face. “The wine is very appreciated. A fine pick.”

John looked pleased. “Thanks.” 

As their plates cleared, conversation flowing with ease, Sherlock found his eyes returning to John’s left hand, repeatedly settling on the ring. He tapped a finger against the wine bottle as he refilled their glasses and tried to ignore it. It proved harder than he would have liked.

Finished eating, Sherlock cleared their plates, settling them into the sink. He hovered at the counter, feeling uncertain. “Just going to wash these, won’t be a second,” he said, trying to buy himself time. John raised an eyebrow. 

“Want a hand?"

“No, no,” Sherlock replied, too fast, and cursed internally at John’s head tilt. “I mean, you’re the guest. Make yourself comfortable, I won’t be long.” 

John grinned, looking amused, almost cocky, and moved into the sitting room. Sherlock turned toward the sink and glared down at the dishes, his brain racing. He felt overwhelmed, off-balance. He poured too much soap into the basin and scrubbed at the plates with more force than was necessary, trying to still his erratic pulse. 

Sherlock knew John was single, knew the ring was a sentimental reminder of a late husband. Mike had said that John hadn’t really dated anyone since said husband passed away. But he still wore the ring, and Sherlock’s stomach twisted with uncertainty. John may have kissed him, several times, and may seem inclined to more, but did that mean John was interested in a relationship? Or was he looking for something more casual? Sherlock wondered if he would be okay with that, with something less serious. 

Pausing to sip his wine, he realized that, no, he would not. He liked John, quite a lot if he was honest. Sherlock dried the plates and put them away, dragging his moment of respite out as long as possible, working toward a decision.

There would have to be a conversation. Sherlock needed to lay his cards out, find some answers. Either John would be inclined to more, or he wouldn’t, and Sherlock wouldn’t have to draw things out. 

He downed the rest of his glass, set his jaw, and walked into the sitting room. “John,” he began and stopped. John was looking through a thick book near one of the many shelves, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth as he read. He looked up with raised eyebrows, the evening light painting the side of his face in relief. John looked soft and warm. He looked like he belonged there, had always been there, and Sherlock felt the words dry up in his throat.

“Yes?” John asked, his head cocked in an inquisitive tilt. Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing.” He dropped onto the sofa, refilling their glasses with the last of the wine. “Finish reading. Please, don’t let me interrupt.” Settling back against the cushions, Sherlock sipped the alcohol. The wine was starting to go to his head, and he felt light and sunny.

Smiling, John returned the book to the shelf with care before crossing the room. “I think there’s something else I’d rather be doing,” he murmured, reaching out to take Sherlock’s wine glass. He set it aside on the coffee table and bent down, placing a hand on the back of the sofa, next to Sherlock’s head. “Unless you had other plans.”

Sherlock blinked, his lips falling open as his breath quickened without his control. “No,” he said, his voice catching, "I don't." John’s smile grew to a smirk, and he shifted forward, dropping one knee between Sherlock’s thighs, the other pushing into the couch by his right hip.

“Mm, good.” John tilted forward. Pressing into him, John found Sherlock's mouth. They kissed with gentle lips, John's free hand tangling in the curls at Sherlock's nape.

Easing back into the sofa, Sherlock let John’s weight settle on top of him. Misgivings fled, his brain clicked offline at the warm slide of their tongues, forgetting his resolve to talk things out. 

John’s hands stroked over his thighs, pulling the shirt from Sherlock's trousers and sliding his fingers beneath, over warm skin. A groan murmured from Sherlock’s lips, caught by John’s mouth as he made good on his promise to devour him. Sherlock was washed away by a wave of arousal with John sucking gently on his tongue, their hips rolling together. He tilted his head back, encouraging John to explore his neck, and John obliged, his mouth moving over the ridge of Sherlock's throat with a light scraping of teeth. 

They slipped sideways on the couch until John was straddling Sherlock’s hips. He caught Sherlock by the hands, pinning them over his head. 

The ring dug against Sherlock’s knuckle, and he flinched, jerking back into the cushions. At the break in contact, John tilted his head back. His eyes were dark, his lips swollen, breath panting in hot gasps against Sherlock’s face. He must have seen something in Sherlock’s eyes, because he leaned back a little farther, pulling their interlaced hands down between them. John studied his face, blinking with confusion, his skin flushed. 

Tilting his head toward the back of the couch, Sherlock swallowed nervously. Not trusting himself to speak, he loosened his grip on John’s left hand, moving until he could brush his thumb over the cold metal of the ring. John’s eyes widened, surprise flashing over his face, followed by guilt, then nothing as his expression closed off. 

“Mike told me,” Sherlock said, hurrying to fill the silence that followed. “I don’t... it’s okay if you... ” his brow furrowed, mouth pressing into a thin line. John was looking away from him, his jaw set in a hard clench. Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again. “I don’t want to be…” he shook his head, grasping and failing to find the words. 

John’s face tightened, small creases digging into the skin at the corners of his eyes. “You don't want to be, what?” he asked in a quiet, strained voice. “A rebound?” 

Lashes fluttering in a quick blink, Sherlock shook his head, shifting until he was inclined toward John. “No, John,” he said, shaking his head again, an almost violent action. “I... I _like_ you.” 

John looked down at him, surprise flitting over his features. He stayed silent, listening, watching. 

Sherlock licked his lips and continued, whispering, “I like you quite a bit, John.” His hands clenched nervously, and he dug them against the sofa. “And I don’t... I don’t want this to be…” he growled, tugging at his hair as he tried a different tact. “Mike said you hadn’t really dated since you lost your... and he gave me shit for leaving at the pub because I just—I thought you might not be looking for something serious. And I… I’m not… that’s not what I want.” His face tightened, eyebrows dropping in a grimace. “It’s fine if you’re not looking for more, I understand." Finding his confidence, Sherlock tilted his chin and narrowed his eyes. "But that’s not what I want, and you should look elsewhere if that’s what you’re after.”

John stared down at him, the skin between his blue eyes furrowed into deep grooves. He was quiet for a long moment before letting his breath out in a long, loud whoosh.

“No, I like you, too,” he said, finally, and Sherlock’s heart leapt. “And I don’t want this,” his hand swept over them both, indicating their current position, "to be just a one night stand.” His teeth worried at his bottom lip, and he looked at their hands, at the ring. “I don’t know why I still wear it.” John's voice was soft, almost vulnerable, his eyes fixed on the gold band. “It’s been years since..." He shook his head, words trailing off before returning. "I _know_ he’s gone. I’ve come to terms with losing James. It still hurts, probably always will. But, I just…”

Sherlock reached up, brushing the pad of his thumb over John’s mouth when he fell silent. “It’s okay,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on John’s. “You don’t have to explain. You don’t owe me that. You don’t owe me any part of what you went through. I can’t even imagine.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The ring isn’t a problem. I just wanted to make sure we were…on the same page.”

Looking down at him, John's eyes moving over Sherlock’s face, searching. Finally, he nodded and stroked a gentle hand along Sherlock’s chest. “I’m glad you asked,” he said softly. “I don’t want you to think this is some kind of fling, because I don’t want it to be. Not at all.” His face flushed, and Sherlock grinned, a tenuous expression that wavered across his lips. 

“Good,” he replied, and he didn’t resist when John bent down to kiss him again, light and gentle. 

Their lips pressed together and opened, with tongues tentatively brushing. Sherlock felt the warm weight of John on top of him, keeping him in place on the sofa. Instead of feeling like being restrained, Sherlock felt warm, felt comforted. With the air cleared between them, he returned John's kisses with eager lips, his fingers tracing wondrously over John's shoulders.

When John abruptly sat back and began working the ring off his finger, Sherlock grabbed his hands with wide eyes.

“No, John,” he said, shaking his head and prying John’s fingers apart. “You don’t have to do that.” 

John smiled. It was a small, radiant thing, and he brushed his knuckles over Sherlock’s cheek. “I want to,” he murmured. “I want you to be the only thing in my head when we do this.” He removed the ring, leaning over to set it on the coffee table. “I loved James, and I probably always will. But he’s gone, and you’re here now, and that’s what I want to focus on.” Slipping down, John took Sherlock’s face in his hands, stealing his breath with his lips, and Sherlock let him.

* * *

Later, they stumbled into Sherlock’s bedroom, pressing open-mouthed kisses to one another’s skin and lips, tugging away clothing. Together, they tumbled to the mattress in a tangle, and John’s words echoed in Sherlock’s head like a vow. 

With John bent over him, trailing lines of fire over Sherlock’s chest with his tongue, the force of his attention was enough to take Sherlock’s breath away. And, when John slipped into him, gripping Sherlock’s hands against the sheets, his bare fingers were warm where they fit between his own.

For a while into their relationship, John still wore the ring. The sight of it no longer filled Sherlock with uncertainty and anguish, not now that he understood. When John woke with screams in his throat and sweat on his brow, Sherlock would hold him tight in the dark. He would soothe him and send a silent thank you to the memory of James Sholto, the man who had looked after John until he no longer could, and Sherlock stepped in to take up the torch.

John still wore the ring as their involvement deepened. Sometimes, when he and Sherlock attended gatherings and events together, it drew confused looks and curious questions. He and Sherlock simply shared a long look, declining to explain because it was nobody’s business but their own.

The ring was on John's finger when they moved in together, a year after that night on the sofa. Still there when they made slow love in their shared bed or came together in frantic, messy moments after a day of stress and adrenaline. When the day came that the ring left John’s finger for good, Sherlock bought a chain to secure its new home around John’s neck, long enough for it to hang over his heart.

On a warm day in June, Sherlock made sure the chain matched the platinum ring he slipped onto John’s bare finger when he went down on one knee before him with love on his lips.

_fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! 
> 
> I was totally stunned by the response to this story, and I want to thank everyone for sharing with me how you liked this story, and why! I wrote this in a fit of fever when I was sick for a few days, only to leave it sitting for almost a month after. Once I read it over, I knew I needed to finish it. I think this is, and likely will remain, one of my favourite things I've written to date. 
> 
> Thank you, lovely readers!


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